Strength and Patience
by Gwyneth Alice
Summary: These things John Watson no longer has. The gun on the mantelpiece beckons him, but someone from afar reminds him why he should not give into his emotional turmoil. Post-Reichenbach. Rather dark; T for angst and somewhat scary/suicidal thoughts.


**_Strength and patience: these things John Watson no longer has. The gun on the mantelpiece beckons him, but someone from afar reminds him why he should not give into his emotional turmoil. Post-Reichenbach. Rather dark; T for angst and somewhat scary/suicidal thoughts. _**

**_AN: There are some really dark suicidal thoughts in this, so please proceed with caution. I torture John so much in this; I hope he doesn't end up like this. Sherlock belongs to the BBC. _**

* * *

John had been staring at the the fireplace for nearly three hours now. This was the way he spent most of his evenings now, staring blankly at the fireplace, his mind in retrospect sometimes, but usually in anger and hatred - hatred for himself, for his circumstances, for Sherlock.

No, he didn't hate Sherlock. He hated what he did to John, what he took away from John, which was everything.

Now he was a lifeless shell, the same way he was the day he ran into Mike Stamford again, except today he felt infinitely worse.

He would stare at the fireplace because his gun was there, resting on the mantelpiece. Why he put it there instead of back in his drawer upstairs he wasn't sure, except that he slammed it there angrily the day Sherlock died.

He knew leaving it there was a temptation, but he also felt it was a reminder of his challenge, the challenge of living without Sherlock Holmes, and what he could do if he failed.

He thought back to some of his recent nightmares - something he usually avoided because living through them once was hell enough - but he did it tonight because tonight was a danger night. He always contemplated his reasons for dying before deciding if it was worth doing so.

Today his nightmare had been real - as real as it could possibly get. John was walking in Trafalgar Square when on the steps of the National Gallery he saw Sherlock surveying the crowd.

It wasn't out of the ordinary for John to see Sherlock. Usually it was just his trench coat as he went around a corner, or the curly black hair of one of his cab drivers, both of which types of occurrences turned out to be fabricated from his imagination. Several times, though, John would catch a very real glimpse of him, today being one of those days.

Sherlock had been surveying the crowd, and John of course was surprised to see Sherlock like this, his full and detailed form leading John to believe he was indeed real today. John started running up the stairs to greet his long lost friend.

Sherlock turned to John, his mouth starting to form his friend's name, but he froze as a bullet zipped through the air and pierced him in his chest, and he staggered to the ground as blood started to soak his scarf.

John picked up his speed and made it to his friend's side, dropping to his knees and trying to elevate Sherlock's head out of instinct. But the bullet had penetrated Sherlock's heart, leaving no hope for the poor soldier.

Sherlock's glassy eyes moved to meet John's. "I'm sorry." He mouthed, the words barely escaping his lips as the life left his eyes.

Then John heard laughter. He looked further up the steps, to see Moriarty standing at the top, laughing at Sherlock, laughing at John. Moran was next to him, leading John to believe he had fired the shot; but as though reading John's mind, Moran shook his head, and Moriarty, still laughing, pointed at John. John looked down at his hand, one he was using to support Sherlock's head, and he saw a gun tightly gripped in his hand, and covered in blood.

"His own pet killed him!" Moriarty shouted hysterically. "Isn't that so _ironic_ Sebastian!" And Moran began to laugh too.

John's breathing quickened, and he threw the gun away from him, and let out an anguished cry. He had killed Sherlock Holmes. He pulled the corpse into his arms and sobbed into his shoulder, while Moriarty's laughter kept ringing in his ears.

Bystanders had taken notice of this. A lone man crying and screaming on the steps of the Gallery. "You alright, mate?" Someone, a local student probably, asked, standing about five feet from John.

At the sound of the student's voice, Sherlock Holmes vanished from John's arms, as did the gun he had thrown. But the laughter in his head only got worse. John stood up, covering his ears vainly with his hands, and started running, started tearing down the sidewalk past dozens of confused people, for some reason never considering ending it right there by stepping in front of a bus.

He conveniently found himself on Baker Street, a few minutes after Mrs. Hudson had left to pick up groceries. He hadn't talked to her much in a while, despite her cheery but failed attempts to start a conversation. He had lost touch with so many people since the Fall, which only further emptied him.

He ran to his flat, and locked the door behind him. He found himself curled in the armchair in the corner where Sherlock would sit, and he cried. He never really cried after hallucinations, not much anyway. But today was a different sort.

And over the course of the day he found himself on the couch, contemplating suicide as he usually did, though taking it into much more serious consideration now.

He was now trembling at the remembrance of today's happenings, and he found himself standing up, and walking to the fireplace. What little was left of his more rational side was trying to hold him back, pleading with him that this wasn't the way to go, but all his strength had left him when Sherlock Holmes did.

His fingers wrapped around the grip of the gun, and they remained frozen to the mantel for a moment. Yes, this is what he wanted to do.

Four months, he though as he lifted the gun to his temple. Four months since Sherlock's death. He _was_ dead. He had felt him die twice.

He felt that torturing himself further was useless, that putting himself through the nightmares and hallucination would be further beating a dead horse.

He moved his finger to the trigger. He looked at Sherlock's armchair, the place where he imagined Sherlock to be whenever he came home, but never was.

"Goodbye." He whispered, unable to choke out Sherlock's name. He readied himself to pull the trigger.

_Beep-beep._

The sound emanated from the chair cushion. The sound of John's phone.

John tilted the gun away from his head, trying to decide if he heard correctly. He replaced the gun on the mantel and stuck his hand into the cushion to retrieve the phone that must've fallen in there when he cried there today.

It was a new text. John opened it.

_John, don't._

There was no name included with the text, and John didn't recognize the number. He stared questioningly at the text for a moment before writing a reply.

How can you see me? -JW

A response arrived almost immediately that completely disregarded John's question.

_Don't kill yourself, John._

No one would care, least of all me. -JW

_I would care._

Who are you? -JW

_Someone who cares._

John nearly threw his phone down in anger. No straight answers, of course.

I can't do it anymore. -JW

_Do what?_

Life. -JW

_Why can't you?_

I can't live without Sherlock. -JW

There was a long pause between texts. John found himself looking at the gun again, and almost moved to get it, but was interrupted by a reply.

_Have strength, John. You're a soldier; you're used to conflict._

Nothing like this. -JW

_You must have strength._

I've tried. -JW

_You must._

I can't. -JW

_You must._

Tears rolled down John's cheeks. He couldn't; he couldn't stand the suffering anymore.

A new text came. John wiped his face with his hand as he opened it.

_You must have patience as well. Good things come in time, and you want to be alive when they do._

Right. Good load of bollocks that is. Sod off. -JW

John dropped the phone on the desk. He wouldn't cry anymore, he thought, his eyes finding the gun once more. He found himself in front of the mantel again, his fingers reaching out for his freedom.

_Beep-beep._

John let out an exasperated sigh. He considered ignoring the text, but his rational side gave him a kick and he put the gun down and reached for his phone.

_I learned that from you, John._

John dropped his phone in shock. His eyes flicked up to the window; the curtains were open. He leaped over the armchair and he saw across the street the light in the upstairs flat switch off. John could've sworn he saw the silhouette of a man in a trench coat and scarf dashing from the room.

John pressed his face the the window, hoping to see the man come out onto Baker Street. But he did not, probably taking some back exit to avoid John. He collapsed in the chair again, resting his head in his hand as his eyes burned with tears. It was an illusion, it had to be.

His phone beeped from the floor. John looked at it for a moment before stooping down to pick it up and read it.

_I believe in you, John Watson. Stay strong for both our sakes. -SH_

John Watson did not kill himself that night.


End file.
